they arrive out of nowhere
the unannounced
the romantics or the beat poets
not knowing they’re dead
reciting old verses
as you sit in near silence
the bird songs
filter in through the screens
providing background noise
irregular yet repetitive
like the marcher’s drum
ever closer to peace
july two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do the birds in cuba
know they’re cuban
do they chirp in spanish
& dance the cha cha cha
what of the doppelgängers
hanging out
in the streets of old havana
do they understand
the language
can they chirp & dance
like their feathered friends
july two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
boarded up castle windows
three stories tall
wider & taller than the original
castle windows
landing areas for black birds
ravens or grackles or cowbirds
circling the perimeter as if on patrol
playing a game without a name
occupying the ledges
for moments at a time
unable to penetrate the fortress
one alighting on a ledge
only to have another depart
sometimes two or three at a time
orbiting the castle as much as
attempting to occupy the ledge
picking a different window each time
but always coming & going
circling & swooping & climbing higher
spreading their wings like black angels
though never once not spiraling
down to the ground
june two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
something touched my shoulder
perhaps I had been dozing off
in & out of a dream
my eyes flickered
but it was too dark to see
instead heard metallic wind chimes
as if they had just been rewound
whoever was responsible
[for the touching and/or rewinding]
did not show themselves
in fact I started to believe they had minimized themselves
having fled into the woods behind the garden
it was cold out but plenty bright
and when I opened the blinds
the light was blinding
and for a brief moment I thought I saw them
I should have known not to open the blinds
at least not without an approving birdcall
something that had been missing
since before my self-induced slumber
I’m stuck
where I’ve been stuck
for what seems like a fortnight now
this rectangular room seemingly self-sustaining
three sides made of glass
the other w/a singular door
slightly ajar
floral & fauna
completely silent
looking in from the outside
may two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
foot tapping
one two three four five
meditating
for good measure
incubating ideas
germinated long ago
the big cheese
stolen in broad daylight
a pack of blind mice
drawing straws
contemplating
mass murdering
the hash pipe
always out of sight
in a shoe
an ashtray
the junkiest of drawers
in the kitchen
getting closer
warmer then colder
back & forth
tile or carpet or wood
the hatching
a surprise ending
april two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s three in the morning
having awakened after maybe
three hours rest
walking slowly down the steps
the blue moon filters
into the house from various angles
I command the corner lamp
to power on to level one
wondering what my dear mother would do
I imagine she went for the cabinet
squatting like a catcher
calling her next pitch
the shelf above the refrigerator
is where the spirits live
I blame them for awakening me
settling in on the bay window chair
I reminisce of the thousands of dreams
of flying & talking & singing like a bird
having faced countless perils
perhaps I’d not survived an horrific dive
or was shot out of the clear blue sky
how many times can you possibly die
in a bed of make-believe roses
how many species of birds can you be
march two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the wary boy preferred
the shadows
learned early on how to stay
barely above the surface
carefully picking all the data
he would ever need
the lonely girl caught on
to his movements
emulating habits & methods
taking notes as she went
molding & crafting them
into her very own
at one point both noticed
a little yellow bird
sporting a brand new song
an emphasis of sorts
shining a light on their faces
for all the world to see
march two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
did you see that spark
in the sky
spooking thousands of blackbirds
and sending them
to the stars
the earth shook
from the footfalls of five hundred
elephants
rushing away from the scene
of the crime
in absolute terror
the nuclear winter
was unmistakably inevitable
all the armies of the world
laying down their arms
praying the world
as we know it
will recover from its losses
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
birds & song & moving picture
congealing into a triangle
far away but coming into focus
slowly nearing the breakline
brought closer by the moon
& an inland breeze
children of the sand
pointing & jumping & shouting
we are saved
we are saved
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
nobody knew there would
be a test today
not even the teacher
a bomb threat forced them
to vacate the premises
and they set off on foot
to the amphitheater
on the west side of the
tree-lined river
it was there they exposed
their souls
one by one for some
others two by two
and even three by three
queried intensely
of life & death
in the end left to choose
either truth or dare
creativity had no limits
in what became
a sacred undertaking
where birds of different colors
sought the safety of the trees
experiencing the discomfort
of the tragedy
and the relief of the comedy
of the spoken word
filling the open air
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’m a songbird
without a song
whispering sweet
nothings
there is sadness
in the silence
this much I know
I’m a songbird
without a song
listening for a clue
on a windless night
but there is only sadness
in the silence
this much I know
I’m a songbird
without a song
underestimated
and determined
turning sadness
into a melody
this much I know
practicing wetting
my whistle
until the morning light
october two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is tension
and then it goes away
no explanation
you sit back & look
for a new way in
there has to be a treasure
down there somewhere
you mark the spot in your brain
and you fly away
so many times I’ve been
destroyed
but you always come back
digging me up
from the grave
this world has always been
white & blue & black
the latter near perfect
in its execution
october two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’m not going to rhyme
I swear I won’t
even though this poem
is about a songbird
there are seven of them
[actually]
inside the bush
swapping silly stories
thriving on higher vibes
a single gust of wind
sets them aflutter
alighting where required
to give aid & comfort
september two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
he thinks she’s gassed
not drunk
just exhausted to the bone
by way of living
flat-footed & unable to react
like she once used to
he’s not doing much better
pretending to be a bird
surviving
on seeds & roadkill
an occasional
brandy slightly chilled
they sold or gave away
everything
& took their act on the road
convinced there was something
out there
besides consumption
september two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
slipping in & out of consciousness
the world is suddenly strange again
going from one calamity
to the next
hopeful something wonderful
is on the horizon
an alternative reality may be that I’m
actually dead
as reported two plus years ago
after the new flu broke out
leaving me hanging around in this place
and that
waiting for someone or something
to tell me what I should do
one thing’s for sure
that is the birds on the other side
are starting to make
more & more sense
as I continue to pick up
on some of their languages
june two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we keep the doors locked
when at home
and unlocked when gone
seems like the most reasonable
thing to do
most of the neighbors
have been replaced
—since we never talked to the old ones
[in the first place]
we’re not speaking
to the new
it’s like we’re living
inside a hitchcock movie
strangers viewable
through their rear windows
training birds of prey
right there
in broad daylight
the ones without feathers
probably drones
june two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 